Branded Face
by MadDragon13
Summary: Sherlock has a nightmare, and it hurts. But it's not hurting him. It's hurting John more, which is somehow so much worse. Johnlock.


**A/N: I'm gonna try uploading this again. I have a sneaking suspicion what went wrong with the format, but if it turns out that what I thought went wrong was not in fact the thing that went wrong, my deepest apologies. Thank you all for the lovely feedback informing me of the problem.** **Anyway, enjoy! (If Fanfic hasn't managed to mangle it again!) :)**

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Sherlock Holmes was having a nightmare.

This was nothing new. It wasn't a flashback to Serbia (thank God for small mercies), but it had, as with all nightmares, its own particular brand of terror. He was standing, bound in chains, the shackles on his wrists tightening ever so slowly, a few feet away from a dark and fiery figure. The figure's form was slim, lanky, and impossibly tall, cast completely in the shadow thrown by an indiscernible light source. Its only visible feature was a pair of delicate wire-rimmed glasses perched neatly where its nose would be. Silent fire raged behind it, flaring out from its back and causing the air to hiss and pop. Every so often, a white-hot tendril snapped out and disappeared like lightning into the indigo sky. The stars themselves seemed afraid of this being with so much power he could scarcely be called a man.

The tendrils of fire loved Sherlock. They danced, fascinated, around him occasionally, close enough to make the shackles burn against his skin. But they never touched him, and the attention of the figure was on the man standing just a few paces in front of him. An ordinary man, by all appearances, an island of simplicity in the tempest of his chaotic mind.

And then the dialog began to play, and Sherlock remembered his dream.

"I just love your little soldier face. I'd like to punch it." The calm tones juxtaposed oddly with the creature producing them.

John's expression was a picture of bewilderment and fear.

"Bring it over here a minute."

John glanced at Sherlock, and Sherlock's chest ached and became thick. He was so innocent, so _John, _a normal man caught up in a game of titans. What Sherlock would give to scream "take me, break me, God knows I deserve it, I'll do anything, just _let John leave!" _But the manacles were digging into his wrists, burning, his mouth was soldered shut and, bile forcing up around the lump in his throat, he nodded.

"For Mary. Bring me your face."

John took two hesitant steps forward. The creature leaned to meet him, one sinewy arm unfurling from its side.

"Lean forward a bit and stick your face out." The thing's voice dripped with smugness. "Please?"

John did as he was told.

"Now, can I flick it?"

John snorted, taken aback. He was so confused, so blameless, he didn't deserve to be here. Sherlock's head was lowered. This was something he would _not allow _to happen to John, he would fight against it tooth and nail, he would die before forcing John into this position of humiliation. He owed him that much, at least.

"Can I flick your face?"

But that simply wasn't an option right now.

John leaned in, then flinched away as the sharp touch sizzled red-hot into his cheek. Sherlock ground his teeth.

The figure flicked John's beautiful face again, leaving another glowing red welt, and chuckled. "I just _love _doing this."

John looked across to Sherlock, who faced the ground. I'm sorry, John. It's my fault. I dragged you into this, and I can't get you out. I let you down again. I'm sorry.

"I could do it all day," said the figure.

And it seemed like he did, in the strange way of dreams. He talked as he did it, it was Mary; Mary, Mary, Mary, but but that was just Sherlock's tape-recorder memory in action. Mary wasn't important here. What was important was how the figure was torturing John exquisitely, forcing Sherlock to do nothing but watch, and every word he spoke caused the shackles to tighten. Blood was running down his hands, pooling at his feet, it felt like the cuffs had closed around bone.

John's face was red and inflamed, radiant with coals burrowing too deep to scar. Sherlock's brain was overwhelmed by fear and humiliation and helplessness, every thought more frenzied with each burn. John kept his face forcibly stoic as the figure flicked him, _hurt _him, again and again, points of contact glowing fire-red across his nose, cheeks, brow, still not flinching with the embers scattered across his face searing, searing, searing into the dark. And Sherlock watched, unable to lift his head high enough to see but unable to turn away as the figure marred John, branded him, marked him as property. Each new spark was a reply to the silent demand _whose are you? Who do you belong to? _with a resounding _you, you, you._

This Sherlock _would not allow._

But he did.

Then the helicopter arrived, a vortex of light and wind that blew from the east (despite there being no obvious sun) and plucked Sherlock away. John cried out and Sherlock reached for him silently, desperately, but the East Wind swept him up into the air, deluging him with light and sound and fear. He curled into a ball and tried to control the gale surging through his Mind Palace, but as soon as he retrieved one piece of knowledge from where the wind had knocked it over another fell. Any thoughts were drowned out by the rumble of an airplane and the bang of a gunshot and the chop-chop-chop of rotor blades all blended together in a drawn-out roaring scream, his mind was rushing faster faster faster _too fast -_

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

Heavy breathing - normal. Elevated heartbeat - normal. Slight trembling - normal. Wetness around eyes - normal.

"Hey, Sherlock! Sherlock, are you okay?"

Concerned boyfriend leaning over him - not normal. But he wasn't compl - _oh, John - _

Sherlock grabbed John's face, pinning him down on the bed, muffling his confusion with a hand. He pressed his lips first to John's left cheek, then slightly higher up. Desperate, almost frantic, he kissed John over and over in the pattern of Magnussen's invisible brands, as he'd wanted to do since the man first made them. John absorbed the kisses - he understood nightmares, he knew Sherlock would tell him about it when he was ready.

Sherlock pressed John's face to his mouth again, and again, punctuating kisses with occasional faint whimpers of need. John tilted his face so Sherlock could get where he wanted, whispering comforting words against the limp hand. Finally Sherlock finished with two kisses against John's left eyebrow and one nearly at his eyelid, before sighing and pulling away.

John smiled, cupping his face gently. "You alright?"

"Am now," Sherlock murmured.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Okay. Goodnight, my love." John pulled Sherlock against his chest and closed his eyes. His fingers carded comfortably into Sherlock's hair. The London night hummed around them. Sherlock shuffled.

"It was Magnussen."

John shifted so he could look Sherlock in the eye. "Your dream?"

"Yes. Except it wasn't really Magnussen. More like an effigy. I'm not sure how aware of that I was at the time...You were there."

John blinked, then nodded. "I'm listening."

Haltingly, Sherlock started his tale. He described his powerlessness, the horror of the creature, the surreality affecting everything but John. He left nothing out. John's face grew steadily more concerned.

"...and the East Wind came like the helicopter did, but it _was_ the helicopter, in a way. I can't remember much more. It was mostly a blur of panic until I woke up...John, I'm sorry for disturbing you, I know I should just deal with it myself..."

"No, Sherlock, _Sherlock. _Look at me." John took Sherlock's face in his hands. "How often does this happen?"

"This one, maybe once every few weeks. But I rarely have pleasant dreams anymore."

John sighed, leaning in to rest his forehead on Sherlock's. "You could have told me."

"I didn't - " Sherlock swallowed. "Didn't think you'd care."

For a moment, John was speechless. Now that he finally _had _Sherlock, now that he could freely release every bottled up emotion that had plagued him for all those years, how could Sherlock believe he was anything less than the world to him? That he didn't care about even the smallest facet of his beautiful genius's life? John told him this in no uncertain terms by staring, shocked, into his eyes before diving forward into a deep kiss.

"I love you," he murmured against Sherlock's mouth, as the other man's arms wrapped around his back. "I love you, I care about you, more than anything else. And the next time you have a dream like that - I don't care how late it is, how tired I am, you wake me up and tell me about it - you hear me, Sherlock?"

"Yeah," replied Sherlock breathlessly. "Yes. I-I will. I love you. I love you too." His voice cracked embarrassingly at the end.

"Come here." John broke away to spoon around Sherlock, nuzzling his nose in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock snuffled happily and nestled back into John's chest.

"Just go back to sleep, okay?" John whispered. "I'll be right here if you need me. Just sleep, my love. Pleasant dreams."


End file.
